FMA belongs to Hiromu Arakawa. I make no money by writing fanfiction.
Icarus
Kissing Roy is like kissing fire, hot and bright, an insubstantial flame that burns and takes what it wants. Ed is always surprised when he pulls away and finds his mouth only bruised, not blistered. Whenever Roy kisses him it is always hard and it is always long, long enough that the fire catches in his mouth and spreads over his body until he is burning and afraid that he'll burn to ashes and be blown away on a breath. But Roy's hands are on him, one at the nape of his neck and the other under his shirt, brushing cold fire over his skin, and he ponders the strange coolness of Roy's hands when the man's kiss is fire incarnated.
They've never done more than kiss; Ed's fear of coming any closer to that fire, of getting any hotter when he is already burning away, keeps him from asking, and Roy, for whatever reason, does not take what he can so easily demand. It is a tenuous affair and hidden, kept safe from prying eyes.
When Roy asks Ed if he wants to come to his house to see some rare alchemical texts Edward knows that he won't leave that house a virgin; he tells Al he'll be studying late and will probably end up crashing on Roy's couch.
When Roy answers the door he's dressed in street clothes, casual in deep reds and rich golds and bright oranges; the man is fire itself.
They spend hours poring over the books, catching and deciphering fragments of code that may or may not lead to some revelation. Finally the books close and Ed notes absently that it's snowing outside; the thought that it must be cold out there occurs just as hot lips brush over his neck, the single spark of touch catching in the tinder of his body and flaring. Cool hands and hot skin as shirts drop to the floor; Ed cries out as he is branded by teeth and tongue, each burn a mark of possession.
It's hard to breathe, the air is hot, burning at his lungs as lips sear down his chest; he feels like he's falling, but missing the ground: or rather, that he's falling upward. And in this paradox world, Roy's hands are even colder than ever, ice working searing his stomach, grappling with his belt even as smoldering lips tease sensitive scars down his torso, reopening old wounds to be cauterized.
Bodies slide against one another; Ed is flint and Roy is steel and it almost hurts as sparks scrape to life and shatter against his skin, against his sanity, but Roy makes a sound that breaks Ed in two and all of the blood in his body must have been replaced with kerosene because Ed is burning.
The falling/flying/floating feeling is back, and Ed clings to Roy's shoulders, trying to balance, trying to burn because it's the only thing to do; even Roy's hands are burning, and Ed thinks distantly of superheated, glowing gases. And suddenly he can see the sun without cloudy masks and blemishes of care and is dazzled by its brilliance, and his wax wings melt all at once, paying the price for his glimpse at the true meaning, the breadth and scope and heat of the flame.
In the afterwards of ashes and smoke and dying embers, Ed presses his forehead against Roy's shoulder and laughs, because he's Icarus all over again, but this time Helios has caught him before he can fall.